


The Case of the Reluctant Monster

by SherlockWho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Narcissism, Romance, S4 fixit, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, a little US presidential wank, eurus scares me, everyone adores rosie, lots of baggage, no cases here, resolving all the things season 4 refused to resolve, then healthy coping mechanisms, tying up loose ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9565025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWho/pseuds/SherlockWho
Summary: There are so many things left unsaid between John and Sherlock--apologies owed, gratitude unspoken.  While they each try to get a handle on what's wrong with them, an unknown stress on their friendship renders them unable to relax with each other and enjoy the conclusion of all of the tension of the past seven years.  Can they solve this case before they drift away from each other completely?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/gifts).



> I am no therapist. I have no authority to diagnose anyone. I have my own journey to take in understanding the fallout from some inherited mental issues, and I've realized that my journey has made me more aware of the awful things I've done to people in the past. I got to thinking about this damned show (and the way these two idiots have hurt each other, over and over again) and thought that maybe if they started being more aware too . . .then this fic happened.
> 
> The narcissism part did in fact come from reading an article about a certain politician's possible narcissism and it went from there. Fascinating stuff.
> 
> The lyrics you see scattered throughout are from Adam Lambert's song, "Whataya Want From Me." It's such a perfect song for rebuilding trust in the wake of destruction. Check it out!
> 
> This thing was written in a matter of two days, almost like a 13k-word one-shot. I hope it makes sense. I would be grateful for a beta, but I'm such a pantser so few of them can tolerate me. I reserve the right to come back to it and tweak it a bit here and there so it doesn't feel like so much verbal diarrhea.
> 
> That being said, there's plenty of humor hidden between the really heavy bits. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Finally, this is a gift to the incomparable aranel_parmadil, because she's amazing.

_There might have been a time_  
_When I would give myself away_  
_Oh once upon a time_  
_I didn’t give a damn_

 

At first, John pretended not to notice.

The problem was that he couldn’t really pretend not to notice things about Sherlock.  After Rosie, Sherlock was the person in all the world John was most closely attuned to.  That happened when you became brothers in arms, after all.  He’d felt it since their very first case together.  Sherlock was one of John’s soldiers now, and he watched him with all of his instincts.

So pretending that he didn’t notice how different Sherlock was after Mary’s sacrifice wasn’t very effective.  It lasted through the alienation John had forced them into, a scrabbling, desperate effort to maintain separation, to bully and blame the most important person in the world to him, to avoid John’s own guilt and shame.  It lasted even a little longer than that, while they were reconciling their mutual need to do whatever it took to save each for the other, even from the other.  John confronted his guilt and shame by confessing his fear that he would fail again and lose everything _again_ , his terror that he would fail Sherlock _again_ and thus relinquish him to the void that had been owed a death since that morning fall from Bart’s.

He couldn’t fail.  He couldn’t afford to, not anymore.

So once the adrenaline had ebbed from all . . . _all of that_ , with Eurus and Sherrinford, with putting their lives back together, with watching Sherlock try to pick up the pieces quite literally in the flat they’d once shared, once that had faded, John was sure that all their exposed raw nerves could start to heal.

It had worked, for him.  He’d lingered in the flat he and Mary had shared for another few months before surrendering to reason and deciding he didn’t give a toss what London thought of him moving back into Baker Street to be closer to Sherlock.  Rosie certainly didn’t object.  The affection between his best friend and his daughter was obvious and, like the sun, he couldn’t bear to look at it directly for too long without feeling blinded and a bit overwhelmed.  He didn’t deserve either of them, but he’d be damned if he would give them up.

He moved back to Baker Street because the thing that was off about Sherlock wasn’t resolving, and it merited closer examination. John was a doctor and, no matter what Sherlock said, when it came to the soldiers in John’s care he observed very well.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John observed from the sitting room desk as Sherlock held Rosie in the morning and fixed her a breakfast of mashed bananas and a porridge concoction he’d dreamed up himself.  She giggled in his ear and he grinned at her.  He bounced her lightly on his hip and hummed in a pleasing baritone rumble.  They seemed to be dancing with each other around the surgically-clean and sterilized kitchen.  Indeed, at one point Sherlock tipped Rosie back in his arms after she finished her banana.

“That is my lovely princess, well done!” he sang.  She clapped her hands and was clearly delighted with herself, with him, with bananas, and with mornings in general.

John felt goopy with affection, but he continued to observe: Sherlock’s free smile, his deductions whispered in Rosie’s ear, the efficient way he finished her breakfast and began to clean up after all of it, the way he only surrendered her to John when John began clearing his throat and peering at him over the edge of his laptop. 

And that’s when the lazy contentment of the morning drained out of Sherlock’s posture.  He became rigid, almost anxious as he handed Rosie over.  He seemed smaller and a little drained of color.  He gave John a smile, but it wasn’t warm—more of a performance than a reflection of true emotion.  He became awkward, a jagged collection of limbs and gestures drained of intention.  It hurt John’s heart to see it.

But he knew one thing above all other things: Sherlock was running away from examining all of this, and forcing a discussion would be a mistake.

So he let Sherlock hem and haw, prevaricate and fidget until it became too much and Sherlock disappeared first into his bedroom, then into the shower, then out the front door to search London for a way to occupy his nerves.

John texted Mycroft—just one word (“Walkabout”) to let the sometimes-odious but endlessly concerned big brother know Sherlock was unescorted—and closed his eyes to think.

There was no reason for this.  There was no more Moriarty, or Magnussen, or Smith.  There was no more lethal sister threatening their domesticity.  Even London’s criminal class seemed to be giving them a respite.  This was a chance for them to get synched up, gain traction on their friendship and start again, stronger and more aligned.

Instead they seemed to be moving away from each other, inch by inch, and John was afraid that one day he would wake up and not be able to see the real Sherlock at all anymore for all the artifice he was hiding in.

After the year he’d had, John was a stronger man by far than he’d ever been—but he knew he couldn’t bear to lose sight of Sherlock Holmes.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.  He hoped he still had enough affinity for the madman that he would recognize the opportunity to bring it up when it came.  He wouldn’t hesitate.  He just needed a sign.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
The sign came three months after he and Rosie had moved in: three months of watching Sherlock be unbearably fond and careful with Rosie, three months of watching him flinch away from John.  The sign was almost a relief.

The sign was a blog post he found on his laptop after Sherlock had commandeered it for a night of research.  The blog post was on the British Medical Journal website, written by Jeffrey Aronson, and briefly discussed the history and nature of the term _narcissism._

John broke into a wide smile.  His best friend seemed to have embarked on a path of self-examination.  And there was that sense of relief, because for the past several weeks John had been slowly sinking into doubt and shame over what he’d done to Sherlock on a morgue floor, the flurry of blows that wouldn’t stop, the violence of his determination that Sherlock would take all of the blame and _suffer_ , would _bleed_ because John had failed to stay faithful to his wife, had failed to keep his promise to her to put everything in the past and move on from her devastating secret.  It seemed nobody in their circle of friends knew anything about that terrible moment.  Sherlock seemed determined to shake it off and leave it behind him.

But recently John had wondered if Sherlock knew himself well enough to realize he was more sensitive to that kind of trauma than he let on. 

But no, perhaps it really was all behind them.  Maybe Sherlock was trying on a new persona, like he had with the _high-functioning sociopath_ lie he’d been telling when they first met.  All anyone had to do was watch Sherlock with Rosie to know it was pure bullshit.  Sociopaths didn’t love the way Sherlock did, with his whole heart and mind.

John noticed a second tab open on his browser and clicked over to it to find a wiki about the Hotchkiss “Seven Deadly Sins of Narcissism.”  His smile faded as he examined the list.

_Shamelessness: inability to process shame in a healthy way or a tendency to project it onto other people_   
_Magical thinking: the certainty that everything done is justified by the unique nature of the narcissist_   
_Arrogance: insulting others to overcompensate for low self-esteem_   
_Envy: insecurity around competent people, expressed by belittling or showing contempt for others_   
_Sense of entitlement: expectation of compliance; failure to comply can lead to “narcissistic rage”_   
_Exploitation: lack of regard for the emotions or interests of others, especially from an advantage_   
_Lack of boundaries: failure to recognize that other people are not extensions of self_

He swallowed as he finished reading and realized that this wasn’t about Sherlock. 

It was about him.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, when Sherlock arrived home and after he’d been assured Rosie was sleeping peacefully, John tried to bring it up.

“So, er, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stiffened where he stood in front of the fireplace, carefully picking his bow out of the violin case.  “Yes?”

“Saw what you’ve been researching on my laptop.”

Sherlock straightened his back.  The hand holding the bow dropped, and the fingers wrapped around it flexed and relaxed, obvious signs of distress—at least, obvious to anyone who knew Sherlock.  “Did you?” he asked softly.

John swallowed against the dryness in his throat.  The felt the click in the back of his throat that indicated this wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, and perhaps he should drop it.  Stubborn to the end, he mulishly pushed forward.  “Yes.  And I just want to say—”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“Doesn’t it?” John asked, and he felt himself become tetchy.  Thinking again about _sense of entitlement_ made him flush a little, and the impulse to be an arse died completely when he remembered the way Sherlock’s left eye bore a burst blood vessel for nearly a week after John’s . . .attack.  He shook his head and felt strangely hollow.  He thought himself so strong, thought he could handle this chat, but he was beginning to think he’d been hasty.

“No, it doesn’t.”  Sherlock looked him in the eye and again John thought of red-rimmed blue skies.  “It, er.  It’s for . . .a case.”

“You don’t have a case on.”

“Cold case.”

“Lestrade?”

“Hopkins, actually.  She, er.  She wants me to review a few of the files in her desk.”

“Huh.  Didn’t think she’d been round.”

“I might have gone by NSY earlier this week.”

John nodded and cast his eyes away from Sherlock and back at his laptop.  He didn’t have it figured out, after all.  Actually, he’d seen himself in a frightening funhouse mirror, and for a moment he’d wrestled with the possibility that his best friend was scared of him because John was a monster and didn’t realize it.

He sighed and gave Sherlock a tired smile.  “Right, well.  Good.  Anything I can, er, help with?”

“Nope,” Sherlock answered, popping the P with a small dose of the insouciance John remembered from Before.  He missed that Sherlock, the idiot with no patience for morons.

The baby monitor crackled and they both turned to see Rosie’s fists pumping the air above her face in her crib.  She was babbling, but if they didn’t get to her within 60 seconds she would become beastly.

Sherlock disappeared up the stairs and into John’s rooms to attend to his goddaughter.  John covered his eyes with his hand and took stock of his feelings. 

He’d thought everything was sorted.  He’d thought he could chat with Sherlock about whatever was bothering him; they’d get it in the open, they’d put together a plan, and they’d figure it out together.  That didn’t happen.  Instead he was left shaken with a suspicion that he was less than healthy, and his dysfunction could affect his family very badly. 

Business was unresolved, and John didn’t like unresolved business.  It smacked too strongly of secretly-alive dominatrices and the taunting electronic ghosts of criminal masterminds.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He was right to be concerned.

Sherlock was even more closed off than before.  He stopped inviting John (and by extension, Rosie) along to Sherrinford to visit with Eurus.  While John had to admit he found the visits creepy, he would much rather go along than envision Sherlock there without him and his trusty gun to keep him safe.  Worse, Rosie didn’t like it when Sherlock left the flat without her for more than three hours.  She became stroppy and difficult, and it made John anxious, made him want to see Sherlock again, soon, quickly, because his daughter was—

John pulled up short again, mentally running through the seven deadly sins and finding himself squarely lodged in the _lack of boundaries_ tier.  He examined the thought again.  It was true, he had forgotten for a moment that Sherlock was a complete sovereign person, and not only alive to ensure Rosie stayed calm and manageable. 

Upon examination, John began to realize that he’d been treating Sherlock as an extension of his own needs and as a solution to his own problems for quite a while now—at least since he’d moved back in.  Sherlock may not be objecting, but did he feel like he was in a position to object?  When there was a possibility John would leave again and take Rosie, the girl who meant the world to Sherlock, with him?

Sherlock would do anything to keep them near, including restructure his whole life to accommodate John and take care of Rosie.  He deserved at least half a day to check in with his family and make sure there were no escaped psychopaths who were too bored to cope with exile.

Newly calmed, John was more competent to deal with Rosie’s strop.  He also realized that he’d corrected a bad behavior through awareness.

Even so, there was something about this self-diagnosis that didn’t sit right with him.  He should make it more official.  He really needed to see Ella again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ten minutes into their session and Ella looked confused.

In the seven years that John had known her, he’d never known her to look confused.  Concerned, sure.  Frustrated, absolutely.  At least once he’d seen a profound sense of pity in her calm, dark eyes, but never the clear confusion that was on display today.

“Narcissism, John?”

John let out a sharp, dry laugh.  “Didn’t get there yourself, did you?” he asked.  “He found it in me, though, didn’t he?”

“You honestly think you’re a narcissist?”

“Look, I wouldn’t have thought it possible before, but that’s part of the disorder, isn’t it?  The narcissist doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with them, not ever.  The deficit is with the rest of the world.  So that’s me.”  He flashed a bitter smile at her.  “All sorted now, I think.  I’ll just put my monster hat back on and move into the crowd, shall I?”

“Why are you so convinced that’s you?”

John launched it, then, and told her everything about his attack on Sherlock in the morgue after Mary’s death.  He told her about the way he’d _expected_ Sherlock to take care of Rosie and, by extension, John.  He confessed that he still felt moments of rage bubbling up inside him whenever Sherlock disregarded his advice and did something stupid or reckless.

“Frankly, just knowing the signs of the . . .issue makes me more aware of my own behavior, and I think it’s helping.  You know, with him.”

“How so?”

“I think he’s been more open with me,” he answered.  He remembered a moment on their sofa just a week ago when Sherlock had been reclined, back deep into the cushions and long pyjamaed legs hanging off one end, Rosie elevated in his arms as they played aeroplane.  She started struggling with his name and finally produced a sound like “Sherrrawk,” and his smile when he’d refocused on John had been pure and had taken a decade off his age.  “He lets himself smile more.  He doesn’t hide as much from me, not in the past couple of weeks.”

“And you think this is because you’re auditing your behavior against Hotchkiss’s list and improving the quality of your interactions?”

John nodded.  “Yeah.”

She nodded, then removed her glasses (when had she gotten glasses?) and set them on the table next to her.  She took a moment and pressed delicately against her eyelids, then sighed and picked up her appointment book.

“We’re out of time today, but we should follow up in a week.”

“Why?” John asked.  “Do you—you don’t agree with that diagnosis?”

She shook her head.  “I’m not sure yet.  I think you’re building a strong case for it, but there are other unresolved issues complicating your diagnosis.”  She squinted at her appointment book, then put her glasses back on.  She looked up at him and gave him a small, clinical smile.  “Doctor.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked again.

“Because you’re here.  If _you_ were satisfied with that diagnosis and you had evidence that trying to change your behavior for the better was giving you results, why would you seek my services?”

He frowned.  Yeah, that didn’t make a lot of sense, did it?  “I . . .I guess I don’t know.”

She nodded.  “Exactly.  There’s something behind it, something you’re still not seeing or facing.”

He frowned and licked his lips.  Another complication, another thing standing between him, Sherlock, and the easier life they should already be enjoying.  It was like trying to enjoy a picnic in Pompeii, 79AD; a threat loomed over them, but to enjoy their day they had to ignore it.  He stood in his therapist’s office, thinking about his best friend and still not convinced he needed to come back here at all.  It was another reminder of the lives he’d led: doctor, soldier, husband, and father, the lives he’d hoped would make him a stronger person.  He kept dragging himself here because of some undefined thing.

Grasping at straws, he blurted, “We’ve paid our dues, yeah?  I just want to relax with him and Rosie and be at peace for a while.”

She jotted something down in her book and copied it onto one of her appointment cards, then handed the card to John.  The look on her face reminded him sharply of his dead wife.  “Then, John Watson, what’s stopping you?”

 

 

 _Just don’t give up_  
_I’m working it out_  
_Please don’t give in_  
_I won’t let you down_

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I thought you’d stopped seeing that therapist,” Sherlock said softly when John returned home.  He pointed to the baby monitor and John understood that Rosie was napping.

“Yeah, well.”  John put away his coat and stretched.  “Still working through some things.”

“She’s not the best therapist.”

“But I know her.  I know she has issues with releasing confidential patient transcripts to certain government officials, but finding a new therapist didn’t work for me last time.”

“You did find a novel way to be introduced to one of my siblings.”

“That’s true.”

Sherlock moved a few things around on the kitchen table.  The kitchen seemed strange without his lab equipment cluttering up every surface, but Sherlock had insisted himself that he needed to move his experiments off-premises with Rosie in the flat.  “Actually, John, she’s not a bad therapist.”

John knew Sherlock had visited her a little, after Mary’s death.  Again John realized that narcissism fit him here, too; he hadn’t given much thought to how Mary’s death would affect Sherlock, for whom she’d sacrificed her life.  Hell, John had been myopic enough to only focus on his own sense of betrayal after Sherlock returned from the dead, as John had prayed he’d do more often than he could remember.  He’d not realized until much later, when he saw the scars on Sherlock’s back (during his convalescence from Mary’s gunshot wound), that it hadn’t been a recreational trip across the globe for Sherlock.  It had been dangerous and John hadn’t been there.  Sherlock had confronted all that danger not only for himself and the thrill of the chase, but also for the people he cared about.  Even if the proportion of why he left favored the Game, it was a bit humbling to realize that Sherlock really did care.

John thought that perhaps this was the time to talk about this.  He thought Sherlock should know that John was officially trying to get a handle on his issues.  They didn’t usually talk about things like this, but this particular problem—the one that had caused John to lash out at Sherlock, to hit him and kick him and take him for granted—should be discussed.

“So, yeah, I should tell you.”  John cleared his throat.  He clenched his hands into fists and felt his skin buzz with anxiety.  This kind of thing, this talking about feelings and emotions and the hidden ways people could be broken, didn’t sit well with John.  He was a man of action; if someone was bleeding, he sewed them up.  If someone was attacking Sherlock, he intervened.  The abstract of this was just so hard.  “I’m talking to her about, you know.”  He lifted his chin marginally, trying to find his courage inside the stance of a brave soldier.  “The narcissism.  Problem.”

Sherlock froze where he stood.  “Oh?”

“Yes.  And I want to let you know, that.  Well.  You’re right about it.  And I’m glad you, er.  Brought it to my attention, the way you did.”

Sherlock’s posture sagged.  So John had been right, that all of Sherlock’s “research” was an attempt at subtlety, a way to tactfully bring John’s attention to the things John was doing to damage them.  Of course Sherlock would probably never have said anything, because it was clear by his behavior during this discussion that he didn’t enjoy these conversations, either—but it wasn’t just about them any longer.  They’d committed offenses on each other’s persons, too many to think there was any risk of alienation from words said or deeds done in the heat of the moment.  Their bond was too strong to be threatened by anything.

In this case, though, Rosie was at risk, too, and John would do anything and everything to make sure he gave her the kind of upbringing she deserved, for her own and for her mother’s sake.

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “John, you have to know that I want to be the sort of friend you deserve, that you and Rosie deserve.”  He turned away from the table and fully faced John, and the vulnerability and openness of Sherlock’s face nearly broke John’s heart.  “Whatever you need, it’s yours.  You need only ever ask.”

John nodded.  He wanted to speak, to tell Sherlock that he did know that, now.  That he was overwhelmed to count this man as his friend, this man whom he’d beaten and bullied and shamed, this man who’d been so giving and caring and open with him since that Fall.  He wanted to apologize for all the things he’d done, the ways he’d pushed and hurt.  But that look on Sherlock’s face—it was obvious that he understood anyway, that John didn’t have to say any more if he was uncomfortable with it. 

Finally John forced a couple of words past the lump in his throat: “Thanks, mate.”  They sounded trite, but John hoped Sherlock heard the conviction and gratitude he was feeling.  He shook himself loose, because that was quite enough of that, ta very much.  “Right, so.  I’m going to go upstairs and try to forget all of . . .that,” he said, gesturing to the spot on the floor where two men’s feelings sat like a pool of sick to be avoided and cleaned up.

“Agreed,” Sherlock said, also letting out a brief gust of air through his pursed lips.  His eyes were wide and he looked a little queasy.

John grinned.  “Once I’ve managed it, we’ll take Rosie for a stroll, then we can ask Mrs. Hudson if she can tend her for an hour or so—”

“You know she’s been by asking when she’ll have the honor again.”

John’s smile softened.  “Yeah.”

“She adores Rosie.”

“Everyone does.”

“Well, only the intelligent people we know.”

John tipped his head in acknowledgment of the point.  “Well said.”  He turned away and headed towards the stairs up to his rooms.  “Then we’re going to dinner, you and I.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile.  “Min Jiang?”

John gave a startled bark of laughter.  “Look who’s feeling poncey tonight.”

“Been a while since I’ve gotten properly tarted up,” Sherlock said, also turning towards his bedroom.  “See you in thirty.”

 

 

_There might have been a time when I would let you slip away  
I wouldn’t even try, but I think you could save my life_

* * *

 

 

Over the next week, John and Sherlock were all but inseparable.  John was watching Sherlock closely, perhaps more closely than he ever had, to find in his body language when John was drifting too close to abusive behavior.  While John was a more direct sort usually (military obedience to orders and refusal to _infer_ died hard), and probably would have preferred hearing someone tell him specifically what he was doing wrong, he knew again that Sherlock wouldn’t accommodate this.  It was too awkward and directly violated a certain sense of decorum.

What surprised John was how delightful Sherlock was during their adventures and evenings in.  He smiled more, he played livelier tunes on his violin, and he demonstrated a certain freedom with his body language and smiles that indicated he was becoming more relaxed.  It was a lovely week overall, and John treasured the knowledge that of all the people Sherlock knew, and he knew a great many impressive people, John alone among them was trusted with this version of the man.

Soon enough it was time to return to Ella, and he thought he was doing it with a certain sense of triumph.  Nearly an hour into the visit, after he’d related his observations and what he’d done to try to fix what was broken between them, he realized he was wrong.

“I’m sorry, John,” she said softly, again removing her reading glasses and placing them on top of the appointment book on the table next to her.  She kept her notebook in her lap.

“Sorry for what?” he asked, and he felt himself bristle.

“It appears I wasn’t clear during our last meeting, about next steps.”

“I guess maybe you weren’t.”

“I wanted you to try to get to the root of the issue, the thing that’s keeping you and Sherlock from really relaxing with each other, as you wanted.”

“But . . .that’s the narcissism, isn’t it?”

She let the silence stretch out between them.  It used to irritate him, this silent prompt for him to _think_.  At least with Sherlock it was covered in bristly words and arrogant insults.  With Ella it was a demand to go deeper.

“Last time I was here you pointed out that I wouldn’t have come if narcissism worked so neatly for me,” he said.

She nodded.  “Yes.  There’s more to it than that.”

Ah, now he remembered.  He really should have been focused on that all along.  It was still there.  “How do I know what it is?” he asked softly, as though the problem between them was a giant beast, slumbering away in the next room.  _To say its name would be to wake it._

Ella looked sad, and John couldn’t figure out why.  “You paid your dues, you said last time,” she prompted.  “You want to relax with him and your daughter.  What does that mean?  And what’s stopping you?”  She stood up and exchanged her notebook for her appointment book, then went about setting up the next meeting and filling out John’s reminder card.  “That’s what I want you to focus on.  What does it mean to you to _relax_ , and what’s getting in the way of that?” 

That was the last day of John’s old life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Because the next morning, John was startled awake by remembered images from a dream.

In the dream, he was completely relaxed.  He was with Sherlock and Rosie at a large estate.  It was warm out, and they’d decided to take a picnic by the lake.  Rosie was grinning in Sherlock’s arms, glowing like a firefly in the shade of a large oak.  There was no tension in any of the three of them.

Sherlock was beautiful like this.  He seemed younger; the wrinkles that had developed around his eyes and mouth were relaxed and not so prominent, and his smile shone with a lack of guile John had only seen a few times in all their years together.

What stole John’s breath wasn’t how otherworldly his daughter seemed, or that Sherlock could be like this, this relaxed and carefree and happy.  What stole John’s breath was the memory from the dream, a vivid but far-too-brief image of Sherlock’s hand covering John’s where it rested, high up on Sherlock’s thigh.

That was a possessive claim.  It was a gesture of belonging and well-known intent, a declaration made and accepted.

“Oh my god,” he said in a gust of breath.  He bent forward over his own knees where he sat on his bed, still wrapped in the temporary silence of a Saturday morning.

John Watson may not have ever been as good as Sherlock Holmes at observing strangers and knowing everything there was to know about them in seconds, but he was a man currently halfway through the adventure of knowing his own mind.  He knew what it meant to him to see that gesture between himself and a contented, joyful Sherlock. 

He was in love with his best friend.

“Oh Jesus,” John whispered to himself, then, not even daring the next in a whisper, thought, _I am so fucked._

 

* * *

 

  
_Yeah it’s plain to see_  
_Baby you’re beautiful_  
_There’s nothing wrong with you_  
_It’s me, I’m a freak_  
_Thanks for loving me_  
_Cause you’re doing it perfectly_

John spent the rest of the week helplessly watching Sherlock with the eyes of a lover.

He could have had a terrifying moment of crisis regarding his own sexuality.  After all, he’d never really been challenged on that front before.  He’d gone through his life comfortably heterosexual, from the earliest days of his childhood when he was the first boy in his school to have a girlfriend all the way through his sad, emotionally turbulent marriage. 

However, John was also a man who was comfortable with the cold, hard reality of facts, and the fact was that while he wasn’t partial to the male form in general, when it came to Sherlock in specific he wasn’t goddamn _blind_.

Sherlock was a beautiful man.  This was a fact.  From the soft curls of his brown hair—just now going silver at the temples—to the pale beauty of his skin to the startling technicolor of his gaze to the frankly feminine appeal of his high cheekbones and plush mouth, there was no way to deny how pretty he was.  While he may not suit anyone else’s idea of loveliness, he suited John right down to the ground. 

John also had to acknowledge that he was a jealous man, and in retrospect he could be nothing more than embarrassed by the territorial outrage he felt whenever anyone showed any interest at all in Sherlock.  He had to admit he’d been feeling this for years.

Towards the end of the week he realized that his gaze had become fixed on his flatmate, and Sherlock was beginning to notice.  Terrified, John fled the flat and texted Greg.

_Mate, I need a pint.  Now.  Interested? JW_

_Thought you’d never ask. Is Sherlock joining? GL_

_No. JW_

_See you at the Windsor Castle. GL_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Windsor Castle Pub was an easy walk from Baker Street, and John used the time to get his anxiety under control.  He arrived at the pub at the same time the DI did, and together they took their preferred spots at the short side of the bar.

“So what’s this all about, hey?” Greg asked.

“Why does it have to be about anything?” John asked.

“I’m not a completely useless detective, you prat,” Greg answered with a cheeky grin.  “If this was an innocent afternoon down the pub you’d have invited me to sit with you through a match.”  Greg gestured at the TV, currently tuned to a Man U game.  “You needed a pint, _now_.” 

John hung his head in defeat.  He was surrounded on all sides by people who could virtually read his mind.  With that thought he looked back up at Greg and gave him a weak smile.  “Alright, Mr. Detective, then tell me why I’m here.”

Greg leaned back on his stool and gave John a once-over, trying to affect his best Sherlock impersonation, all frowns and squinted eyes.  Eventually he shrugged.  “No clue.”

“Good.  At least it isn’t obvious to the entire world.”  John took a swig of his pint as soon as the bartender set it down in front of him.  He added softly, “Not yet, anyway.”

“Spill it,” Greg said.  “Confession does a body good.”

“And you’re my priest now?” John laughed, then felt the full weight of the confession on his chest.  He sighed and let it go.  “God, Greg, I’ve really cocked this up.”

“To do with Sherlock, then?”

John raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips.  “How?”

“You’re worried about something being obvious to the whole world, but that implies—”

“Yeah, you know what?  Never mind with all that.”

“Uh huh.  Cut me off in the middle of a deduction.  Christ, you never do that to His Nibs.  You just like the sound of that tosser’s voice.”

John felt something drop from his throat to the pit of his stomach.  He did.  Oh, god, how he did.  He felt his cheeks go scarlet, and no matter how dim the pub was, it felt like magenta neon shining from his face.

He could hear Greg lean back on the stool, the creak of the old wood shifting.  “Fuck me.  No way,” Lestrade whispered.

John smiled, embarrassed but a little relieved.  “Way.”

Greg whipped out his mobile.  For a second or two John felt his blood turn to ice. 

“What are you doing?” John asked, his voice sharp and brittle.

“Texting Donovan, telling her to up my pledge to the office pool.”

“Goddammit, Greg.”

“Oh my god, did you think I was texting Sherlock to let him know about this little epiphany of yours?  Mate, come on now.”

John’s hands were trembling on the bar.  “I’m not gay.”

“Jesus, is that the problem?”

“It’s a pretty significant problem.”

Greg shook his head, a small laugh spilling from his mouth.  “No, it’s really not.  Look, I’m not gay either, but I’ve got to tell you that man of yours—”

“He’s not mine,” John said, and it was a sad thing to say.

Greg gave him a look that somehow lifted John’s spirits.  “That man of _yours_ could tempt the pope.”  He smiled when the bartender set a plate of chips down in front of him then stuffed one into his mouth.  “Besides, it’s not all about sex.  I mean, yeah, when love is good the sex is amazing, but you two have been heading down this path since the day you met.  You’re just too stubborn, John.”

“Yeah, right.  Of course this is my fault.  Everything is my fault.”

“Didn’t say that.  So, why are you here, then?  Why are you talking to me about it instead of himself?”

John shook his head.  “Because I’m not good for him.”

Greg frowned.  “What the hell is this, now?”

John explained to him then about Sherlock’s “research” and the articles he found on narcissism.  He confessed to the incident in the morgue, when he had lost control of his narcissistic rage and beaten Sherlock bloody in front of a serial killer.  He explained that he’d been going to his therapist to try to sort out everything in his head and, more importantly, to get control of this monster so he could be the friend Sherlock deserved.

“I can’t think beyond that, Greg.  The friendship.  His friendship.  Next to Rosie he’s the most important person in my life, and I couldn’t live with myself if I ever laid a hand on him like that again.”

Greg looked queasy.  It wasn’t the chips; the Windsor Castle made a plate of some of the finest chips in London.  “I didn’t know any of that.”

“Why would you?” John asked, his voice rough and a little raspy.  “I don’t want to face what I’ve done and Sherlock would never betray me like that.”  John felt his throat tighten, but he forced the next words out anyway: “He deserves so much better than me.”

Greg shook his head.  “John, listen to me.  Do you remember what I told you, when we first met?  Sherlock is a great man.  He still is.  But you’ve made him a good one.”

“No—”

“Shut up.  Yes, you have.  Knowing you and learning to care about you changed him.  You didn’t know him before.  He was a right terror.  The man he is now—it’s different.  He’s kinder, more thoughtful.  Yeah, okay, he’s still arrogant, but he rather deserves it, don’t you think?  He’s brilliant.”

John nodded.  He didn’t think it was his place to tell Greg that Sherlock was the slow one in the Holmes household.   Then again, he was also the one with the loveliest heart, because he used his still remarkable genius in service to those who needed help the most.

“And whether you think you deserve it or not, you get most of the credit for the way he’s mellowed.  So you have some issues to work through.”  Greg arched his eyebrow at him.  “I don’t think it’s as bad as you’re saying it is—no, shut up again, listen.  We’re always hardest on ourselves, yeah?  And your own therapist doesn’t sound convinced of this diagnosis, mate.  Obviously beating the shit out of him wasn’t good—”

“No shit.”

“But you were under a crushing amount of stress, what with Mary’s death and raising a newborn by yourself, you were at wit’s end.”

“That’s not an excuse.  I never should have taken it out on Sherlock.”

“Maybe not, but from what I can see, he waded through hell to get your friendship back.”

John nodded.  “He did.”

“He signed up for that hell, and if I’m not wrong he probably provoked that reaction from you.”

“No, no, Smith did.  He taunted Sherlock, and . . .”  John’s voice trailed off as he tried to remember that moment again.  Smith did taunt Sherlock, but Sherlock drew a scalpel, and John reacted viscerally to the entire thing.  From where he stood in that moment, Sherlock was in a drug-addled downward spiral, and just as likely to harm himself with that scalpel as anyone else, and John couldn’t bear it.  Nobody was allowed to harm Sherlock, not even himself.  He blanched.  Sherlock had indeed provoked John’s response.  He knew John better than anyone else had known him, and he knew that, despite John’s profound grief, he would not react well to anyone threatening Sherlock.  “Oh god.”

Greg nodded grimly.  “There you go.”

“So it might not have been a narcissistic rage.”

“I’m not a psychologist, John.  I don’t know that.  I’m just saying that you might want to have a chat with him, yeah?  Stop assuming things and _talk_ to each other.”

John thought about this as Greg refocused on the match on the telly.  He did indeed have a lot to think about.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John’s next visit with Ella was a subdued affair—at least at first.  She asked him how things were going, and he said they were going fine, thanks.  She asked how Rosie was doing, and he opened up a little bit, explaining that Sherlock was trying to teach her sign language and she was stuck on _cat_ and _juice_.  She then asked about Sherlock, and John shut down.

“What’s wrong, John?” she asked gently.

“Nothing.”

She tapped her pen against her notebook.  “May I make an observation?”

He let out a sharp, wry bark of laughter.  “You’re the only one who even hesitates.”

“When things really are wrong in your friendship with Sherlock, you can’t help but tell me about it.  When things are good with your friendship, it’s the same.  The only time you aren’t willing to talk about it is when things are left unsaid.”

John cleared his throat.  “You told me last week that you wanted me to figure out what was keeping us from relaxing with each other.”

“Yes.  How is that going?”

“I figured it out.”

“And?”

“I might not be a narcissist.”

“Okay.”

“I am, however, in love with him.  And I have never let myself see it.”

She gave him a small smile at this, and he sighed.  _How did everyone else in the world see it before I let myself do?_

“I suppose you haven’t talked to him about this.”

“What would be the point?  No, wait.  It’s not about me, you see?  That’s why I’m beginning to think I’m not a narcissist.  The insecurity and everything else, that’s not what’s stopping me.”

“Then what is?”

“He’s been through so much.  God, so much.  I’m not absolutely sure he knows his own mind yet.  He’s punched holes in his memory his whole life so he can forget the kind of trauma that drives people insane, and recently those holes have been filled in.  I can’t put this on him, I can’t, not until he’s worked through that.  It would be the worst kind of thing to do to him.”

She didn’t flinch.  Her gaze was firm on him.  “Have you asked him what he needs from you?”

John frowned.  He searched his memory, looking through all their interactions since the end of Eurus’s miserable games, and he came up empty.  “No.”

Her gaze again didn’t waver. 

“I guess I have homework this week,” John said.

She smiled.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Just don’t give up on me_

 

A case kept them busy all weekend, but it was a rather silly case involving someone kidnapping dogs from a dog park and returning them to their owners after the dogs were washed and groomed without their owners’ knowledge or consent.  In the end it was discovered a mother with a severe allergy to dogs was responsible.

Finally, John and Sherlock were alone in the flat, Rosie napping nearby in her downstairs crèche.  Sherlock was skimming through online articles, trying to tease loose some evidence of misbehavior on a large scale, and John thought it might finally be a good time to have a long-overdue chat.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

“I’d like a chat.”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop and John could practically _feel_ his gaze settle on him like a physical weight on his skin.  Sherlock flinched, but nodded.  “Very well.”  He closed his laptop and moved from the desk to his chair.

John matched his movement and sat in his own chair.  They looked at each other solemnly for a moment.  Sherlock didn’t fidget or grow irritated.  There was no evidence he was bored or aggravated with John for stalling.  In fact, he looked rather fearful.

“You okay?” John asked.

“Just—let’s chat, John,” Sherlock said gustily, apparently resigned to this.

“Right. So.”  John leaned back in his chair and tried to find the right words.  He should have drafted this out.  This was too important to do off the cuff like this.  But he absolutely would not subject Sherlock to this kind of anxiety again.  He had to do this now.  “You know how important your friendship is to me, yeah?”

Sherlock gave him a tentative nod.

“It’s just.  We’ve been through so much, Sherlock.”

“Hell and back,” Sherlock said softly.

“Yeah, exactly.  And I’ve never thanked you, for everything.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Completely unnecessary.”

“No, it’s necessary.”

Sherlock peered at him.  “It is, for you.”

“Yes.”

“Very well then.  You’re welcome.”

“And I’ve never apologized for what I’ve done to you.”

“You’ve done nothing that I didn’t deserve.”

The look on Sherlock’s face and the defeat in his posture broke John’s heart utterly.  “No.  No!  Sherlock, no.  You didn’t deserve that.”

“To what are you referring?”

“With Culverton Smith, in the morgue.  What I—what I did to you.  There’s no excuse, please don’t excuse it.”  John felt his throat tighten and he knew he was starting to cry, but he had to get through this. 

“I forced it on you.  John, no, wait, listen.”  Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on his knees.  John was startled by how clear his friend’s gaze was, how devoid of artifice and deceit.  He had rarely known him to be so lucid and _present_.  “You want to claim some sort of moral failing, but you seem determined to ignore my own.  I am not a good friend.  I am the one who abandoned you at a crime scene on our very first case together.  I am the one who tried repeatedly to drug you for a case, and I succeeded.”  He cleared his throat.  “More times than you probably know.”

“Wait, what?”

“You seem to ignore that I’ve manipulated you via increasingly hysterical methods, that I forced you to watch me jump off a building!  I sacrificed the best friendship I’ve ever known in service of a game—”

“Okay, stop right there.  You did it to protect my life and the lives of your closest friends.”

Sherlock seemed to mull that over, but finally nodded.  “In part.”

“No, in total.  Mycroft told me that you two had multiple plans, but there was risk involved in all of them except one, and that risk wasn’t to you.  It was to me.  So stop this bollocks.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.  This seemed to be too much sentimental ground, and he was clearly uncomfortable.  “I am no saint.  In fact, I rather think . . .John, I think you would be better without my friendship.”

John’s jaw fell slack.  He wanted to protest, but the anguish on Sherlock’s face was real.  He couldn’t dismiss this as trivial.  It was incredibly real for Sherlock.

Sherlock continued.  “I am not a good man, no matter what you and Greg insist I am.  I am . . .rather deeply flawed.  I dare say I’m a monster.”

John’s instinctive urge to protect Sherlock at all costs rose within him.  “Stop saying that.  I can name a dozen people without pausing who would say that you’ve saved their lives.  Monsters don’t do that.”

Sherlock let out a sharp bark of false laughter.  “They do, if it amuses them.”  He sighed and leaned back in his chair.  “Years ago I told you not to make people into heroes, John, least of all me.  I will disappoint you every time.”

“You haven’t done since you came back from . . .being away.”

“I have.  I absolutely have.  I didn’t see Mary for who she was, and that was the very first thing I should have done when I returned.”

“And if you had?  If you’d warned me off that night and I’d heeded you?”  John gestured towards the crèche where he daughter slept.  “We wouldn’t have Rosie.”

Sherlock acknowledged this with a heartbreakingly fond glance at his goddaughter, but when he looked at John again his eyes were haunted.  “I wouldn’t be eaten alive with guilt.  Mary gave her life for mine.  I didn’t deserve that sacrifice.  I never will deserve it.”

John let that thought hang between them.  It was so obvious now.  Sherlock was suffering, and John didn’t know how to help.  He only said, “You loved her.  Mary.”

Sherlock flinched, but nodded.

“Why?”

Sherlock startled, then frowned.  “Don’t you know it?  She was funny, clever, tough—”

“That’s not why.  You have a lot of people in your circle who that’s true of.”

“She gave you something to live for, when I was gone.”  Sherlock swallowed hard.  “I didn’t realize how badly my actions affected you.  I didn’t think I was that important.”

“You.”  John again felt as though his throat had completely dried up.  He gazed at his friend openly.  The early afternoon light was plentiful in the flat, and the sparse silver in Sherlock’s hair was catching the light.  Time waits for no man, not even Sherlock Holmes.  “You have to know, now.  Sherlock, next to Rosie you are without question the most important person in my life.”

Sherlock gave John a small, heartfelt smile, and John felt a hard tug in his chest.  God, he had it bad for this man.  “I do know that, now.  But John, I’m being earnest when I tell you that you would be better off if I wasn’t so important.”

“Are you asking me to . . .what are you asking?”

“No.  I’m not asking for that.  I don’t want you to leave, neither you nor Rosie.  You’ve both become essential to me.  I would not tolerate your absence well.”  Sherlock stood abruptly and moved to the windows looking out over Baker Street.  With his back to John and his face hidden, he said in a rough voice: “I am endeavoring to be a better friend to you overall, but please don’t ask that of me.  I am selfish enough to demand that you never leave.”

Without thought, John assured him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock turned again to face John and John noted his shining eyes, the fidget in his hands and feet.  His expression was unguarded and completely overwhelmed with gratitude.  “Thank you.”  He took a deep breath and said, “Please be patient with me.  None of it—what happened with my sister—has been easy on me, and I need to work through how—who I really am now.  I’m working through it all, for you.  For our friendship.  For us.”

John got up from where he’d been sitting.  There was no better time to ask the question that Ella had suggested.  “What can I do?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Just don’t give up on me.”

“But it’s not you.  This—I have so much to work through, as well.”  Something occurred to John then, and his eyes grew wide.  “Wait.  The narcissism. That—Sherlock, you don’t—you can’t think you—”

Sherlock flinched, then returned to himself and gave John the largest grin he was capable of.  “How about some tea?  Are you hungry?  I’m in the mood for sushi.”

“Sherlock.”

“Mrs. Hudson could look after Rosie, or perhaps we could bring her with?  Mr. Yamamoto wouldn’t mind, I know he wouldn’t, and she’s so well-behaved—”

“ _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock stopped and turned back to John with defensive eyes.  “What, John?”

“You are not a narcissist.”

Sherlock shied away, actually turned his body a little away from John as though he were hiding a horrible secret.  “I am.”

“But, I thought.”  John recalled his discovery of that BMJ blog post on his laptop, thought about how he’d initially assumed that Sherlock was probing his own psyche, but he dismissed it as soon as he read the Hotchkiss list and applied it to himself.  “Oh, Sherlock.  No.”

“I _am_ trying to overcome all of this, but please don’t tell me I’m not a monster.  I can’t get better until I face it.”

“Just.  Hold on.”  John’s new reflex to analyze his words and actions against that damnable Hotchkiss list kicked in, and he took a deep breath.  “Let’s take a step back, yeah?  Have you spoken to anyone else about this?  Do you know for certain that you’re a narcissist?  How did this even start?”

Sherlock definitely looked trapped.  He wanted to bolt, but again, they’d been through too much and built up too much respect for each other to entertain their instinct to flee from uncomfortable situations.  He frowned at John, but answered.  “No, I haven’t been diagnosed, but pardon my arrogance when I say I think I’m smart enough to recognize patterns in my behavior.  I’ve always known about narcissism, of course; you can’t grow up in a household like mine without being a little . . .suspicious, especially with Mycroft.  But I never applied it to myself until recently, until that obnoxious American wanker won the presidential election.”  He smiled.  “I thought I could analyze his behavior so I could anticipate fallout on a global scale.  I didn’t expect the symptoms to hit so close to home.”

John moved closer to Sherlock and was dismayed to see Sherlock moving away.  “I did the same, you know.  When I saw that list I saw all the things I’d been doing to you, all the ways I’ve been taking advantage and . . . _hurting_ you.”

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened.  “You?  Hurting me?  No, John.”  He smiled again, but this one seemed watery and more emotionally weighted than John was used to.  “You’re my doctor.  Your presence in my life has healed me.  Don’t you see?  Your friendship has redeemed me in more ways than you can ever appreciate.”  He shook his head.  “I will do whatever it takes to be worthy of what you and Mary have given me.”

“Don’t you ever think that leaving again can do that, do you hear me?” John said, and he was appalled by the emotion in his voice.  Would he ever stop breaking down around this man?  “I am never better off without you.  You’re all, everything I need.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and John suddenly found himself wondering if he’d gone too far, shown too much of his own recently-realized longing.  Then Sherlock opened his eyes and John saw raw pain for just a few seconds, some unplumbed depth that was almost inconceivable to him. 

But what would hurt Sherlock that way, what about John’s confession that he was the only thing John needed? 

“I don’t deserve that, you know,” Sherlock murmured.  “It’s a responsibility you should never give me.”

“You’ve borne it well so far.”

“Except for abandoning you for two years.”

“Except for that,” John acknowledged with a curt nod.

“Perhaps the drugging, too.”

“About that.”

Sherlock smirked.  “Better not.”

“Sherlock.”

“You’re fine.  No lasting effects.”

“That you’ve observed.”

“John, I would know if you’re damaged.”

“Well, there you have it, mate.  I’m damaged and you’re acting like everything’s fine.”

“You’re damaged within acceptable parameters.”

“I’m really not.”

“You’re not a narcissist, John.  Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’ve been an idiot since we met.”

“Well, before we met, actually.”

“Nobody else thought so.  Just, when I stand next to you, see.”

“There are only three people on the planet that can stand next to me and not be diminished by it.”

“Huh.  Maybe you’re the narcissist after all.”

Sherlock’s smirk transformed into a smile, one so lovely that John gave himself up for lost.  _Sherlock will know, sooner or later.  Better to just accept that he will and hope he won’t be too disgusted._   “John, when are you going to accept that I’m right about _everything_?”

“When you stop being wrong, of course.”

Sherlock’s smile somehow became even lovelier, and John gave himself one week before he started babbling his adoration like a helpless moron.  Then Sherlock shook himself and his features rearranged into that distant sociopath’s mask.  It didn’t fit so well as it had once done.  “I still want sushi,” Sherlock said.

Rosie slept on, and was quite wrathful when John picked her up.  She subsided a very little while her father changed her, then even more as her godfather began to sing to her.  She loved his voice. 

 _It must be in our blood,_ John thought, and for just a minute he entertained the fantasy that this was everything, that Sherlock was just as in love with John, and he’d come home to his family.  It was easy to do, with Sherlock singing and getting a bottle ready.  The domesticity of it all made John want to cry.

 _Yes, I want this.  I want you, Sherlock.  And I suspect—I_ hope _—that I’m not wrong, that I see it in your eyes, too.  I just have to be very careful with this, with you.  The pain if this goes wrong would be too much to bear._

 

 _Just don’t give up_  
_I’m working it out_  
_Please don’t give in_  
_I won’t let you down_  
_It messed me up_  
_Need a second to breathe_  
_Just keep coming around_

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next several days after the conversation and the sushi bore witness to what between any two other people would be called _flirting_. 

It started when John noticed that Sherlock was staring at him.  At first, it was John holding Rosie after he’d changed her nappy again—something he’d come to accept that Sherlock rather John took care of.  Sherlock had the timidity to dart his eyes away at that instance, and the next, when John caught Sherlock staring at him while he put away the shopping.

But then Sherlock upped the ante by not looking away.

Sherlock held John’s gaze over the microscope as John came into the sitting room fresh from a shower, drying his hair with a towel.  John smiled.  Sherlock blushed and returned his gaze to his microscope.

Then there was the gaze they shared while John was finally updating his blog—both the content and the template—and Sherlock had Rosie on his lap, reading her a story from the original Grimm’s fairy tales.  Sherlock’s voice had trailed off and John looked up to find Sherlock’s eyes fixed on him.  This time Sherlock smiled.  John returned the smile, then Rosie started pounding her fist on the book.  Sherlock let out a brief but appealing deep-throated laugh and gave in to her, as he always did.  She was charmed by his smile and reached out to him to grab a fistful of his hair.  That devolved into a bit of a tumble between them, an exaggerated wrestle that filled the sitting room with laughter.

But John was still left giddy by Sherlock’s smiling gaze.

And later that night, as they sat together on the sofa, Rosie between them, sharing popcorn and easy banter and laughter and eventually sleepiness, John realized that he was completely content and perfectly relaxed, as he’d told Ella he wanted to be—because he wasn’t fighting anymore.  He wasn’t holding himself back and pushing Sherlock away.  He was letting this happen, as he should have from the very beginning.

As soon as the right moment came, John was going to offer himself to Sherlock, for him to have however he wanted, and for the rest of his life.  Because while he had loved Mary enough to marry her, the marriage had started to fall apart because _this_ was where his heart belonged.  And her last message to him had been her blessing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m going to tell him.”

Ella blinked.  John was dripping rainwater from his jacket onto the floor of her reception area.  The doorknob was still in his hand. 

“Oh?” she asked.

John came back to himself and realized that the session hadn’t officially started yet.  He blinked a couple of times, then did the embarrassed British man shuffle while he took off his coat and scarf, hanged them on the hook, and apologized for the wet mess on the rug.

“Don’t mind that, come in,” Ella said, apparently amused.  “You’re going to tell who what?”

“I’m going to tell Sherlock.  Today.  That I love him.  Am _in_ love with him.”

“Oh.  That’s very good, John.”

“Because that’s why I haven’t been able to relax.  I’ve been, well, _choking_ on it.”

“So this past week?”

“The best in _years_ ,” John said, sitting in the chair that had come to feel almost as familiar as the one at home in Baker Street.  “I stopped hiding it.  I let him see it.  Let him see me.”

“The way you feel about him.”

“Yes.  And—I think he feels it, too.  I hope he does.  God, he has to.”

“That’s wonderful, John.”

“Yes, so tonight.  I’m going to do it tonight.”

“Why tonight?”

“Because I won’t be able to sleep another night without him, I know it.  God, I love him so much.  I want him so much.”

Ella was grinning at him.  “Then you don’t need me anymore.  Do you feel how happy you are?  Because I can see it.  I hear it.  You’re going to be just fine, John Watson.”

“I’ve got to go,” John said, turning back to reclaim his barely-settled coat and scarf.

“Of course.  No charge for today.  My gift.”

“Thank you, Ella,” he said, finally coming to a full stop before her.  He had so much respect for the way this therapist had helped him, had understood him well enough to know how to show him what was so obvious to so many others.  “For everything.”

“You are so welcome.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

John made it home in a record twenty minutes. 

As he stood at the door to his own flat, he realized that Sherlock was just as sick of fighting it and waiting.  He stood gaping at the threshold as the lights of several dozen candles cast a soft glow over his whole world. 

Sherlock stood at the window, silhouetted by the gray day behind him, playing softly on his violin and staring at John, his eyes caramelized by the candles’ light.

“Oh,” John said, then dropped everything he was holding and strode to stand directly in front of Sherlock.  Sherlock’s gaze never faltered.  His pupils expanded and his wrist shook delicately, resulting in a trembling, bright vibrato in his violin. 

Sherlock started to hum along with the music, and John came closer, closer still, until he was as close as he could be without interrupting the music.  Sherlock gazed at him the entire time, his heart wide open.

“Stop,” John breathed.  “Stop, please, Sherlock, it’s beautiful, but please stop.”

Sherlock stopped.  “Rosie is with Molly and Greg.”

John gave him a trembling smile, then gently removed the bow and the violin from his shaking hands.  He put them aside carefully, then threw caution to the wind, turned back to Sherlock, and pulled him down into a kiss.

Sherlock trembled against him, his lips quivering on John’s even as he tried to deepen the kiss.  It felt like Sherlock was having a seizure in his arms.  John moved back a fraction of an inch and tried to see his friend’s face.  “Sherlock?  No, is this—am I wrong?  Oh god.”

“No, John, no, this.  It’s today, isn’t it?  Today’s the day.”

“Today is what day?” John asked.

“When you finally claim what’s been yours from the start.”

John swallowed as his eyes filled with tears.  “Oh.  Yes, then.  And the day I give myself to you, finally.”

“Oh thank god,” Sherlock whispered, then dove back into the kiss, this time more certain.  They wrapped their arms around each other and fell into a rhythm, John giving his tongue, then Sherlock adding his own.   John’s hands came to rest in Sherlock’s hair, while Sherlock’s hands were restless, roving over John’s back and shoulders, hips and sides.  Sherlock broke away for a deep breath and John immediately relocated his worshipful mouth to Sherlock’s long neck.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t see it straight away,” John whispered against Sherlock’s jugular.

“No, fine, it’s fine, it would have been a disaster to have started something with a man like I was, with an incomplete memory and unhealthy coping mechanisms.”

John chuckled.  “Those are too many syllables.  I’m not doing a good enough job, here.”  He moved up a little, reveling in the smell of Sherlock’s cologne—subtle, woodsy, clean—and fastened his lips around Sherlock’s left earlobe.

Sherlock yelped.  “Oh, wow,” he said.  “John, feel.”  He snatched John’s hands from his hair and placed them on his chest, where his nipples had become harder than granite.

John flicked his nipples and Sherlock yelped again.  “That’s nice,” John said, observing.  He could do that, observe, no matter what Sherlock thought.  When it had to do with the human body, he could observe.  And when it came to sex?  Yes.  And when it came to this specific human body, and sex?  _Oh god yes._

“You’re not gay,” Sherlock said, and John saw in his face the last trace of his defenses, bravely being held up in front of him even though it was far too little to stop this and far too late to do any good.

“If being your man for the rest of our lives makes me gay, then I’m the gayest man in London,” John said, taking Sherlock’s soft, wet, lovely mouth again.  Sherlock whimpered, then brought all of his masculine strength to bear and wrapped John up in his arms.

“The rest . . .of our . . .lives,” Sherlock murmured between kisses.  “Oh, John, are you sure?  You must be sure.”

“I am absolutely positive.  God, Sherlock, yes.  You’re all I need.  I said that, and I mean it in every way.”

Sherlock kissed him again, and John couldn’t think if a kiss had ever been this devastating before.  This was rewiring his basic biology, reprogramming him to find this body and this scent the only appealing thing in the world.  He slid his hands up Sherlock’s chest to again wrap his arms around the man’s neck, and Sherlock shuddered.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever.  Sherlock, have you ever . . .?”

Sherlock froze.  “Are you _trying_ to ruin the mood?”

John laughed.  “No.  I just want to know, okay?”

Sherlock lowered himself a little and John felt the unmistakable outline of a hard cock pressed up against his own.  “Is it more important than this?” Sherlock asked.

“Dammit,” John cursed, then plunged his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.  He was lost in that softness, the way Sherlock was learning to suck on John’s tongue, the way he seemed determined to taste everything inside John’s mouth, the instinct he had for listening to John’s whimpers and moans.  He felt the need to disrobe this body and learn it completely, but . . .. 

 “Sherlock, please tell me.”

“Oh _god_ , you’re infuriating!” Sherlock said, then pulled himself away from John fully.  “Look, I’ve been waiting for this moment for seven long, excruciating _years_.  I’ve even done the ridiculously sentimental thing of holding on to it like it was some gift I could give you.  If I’d known then that you would hold me off based on the answer to this, I might have given it away already, perhaps to Irene Adler.”

John felt an almost instant flare of white hot jealousy surge through his veins.  “Oh, but no, Sherlock.  She would never have taken that virgin arse, would she?  That’s _mine_.  You’ve known it from the start.  Maybe you could have let her lick your cock, maybe even fuck it, but that arse is mine.”

Sherlock’s knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor.

John blinked a couple of times then dissolved into completely uncharitable laughter, even as he pulled the love of his life off of the floor.  “Oi, mate, you alright?”

Sherlock pouted.  “Mate.  To add insult to possibly actual injury, you just called me _mate_.”  He sniffed.  “Just leave me alone.”

“Never,” John said affectionately.  “But I will put you to bed without supper, just like the spoiled prat you’re being.”

“Mate.  Prat.  I see this is going to be one of those relationships that doesn’t settle on a good pet name for several _years_.”

“Well, we have that time, right?”  John slung Sherlock’s arm over his good shoulder and started to move him down the hall towards his bedroom.  “Come on, let’s get you into your bed before you descend into a proper strop.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything after that, not until John had pulled the sheets back, knelt down to take Sherlock’s shoes off, then put him into the bed and pulled the covers onto him.  Only then did he grab John by the forearms and let out a hearty cry before he flipped him over. 

John blinked up at Sherlock, startled that he was now the one being put to bed.  “Er, Sherlock?”

“Did you _really_ think I was going to let you go that easily?  Years, John.  I already told you, I’ve been waiting years.  I’ve lit over 30 candles all over the flat.  I was playing my favorite Brahms piece for you when you got home.  I even got Molly and Greg to take Rosie, and do you know how much notice those two require?  Weeks.”

“Wait.  So you planned this, this _seduction_ , two weeks ago?”

“You already know I can tell you what you’ll be doing two weeks in advance, John.  Do keep up.”

“Oh my god.”

“Now you have the information you need about my virginity so that kink of yours can be satisfied.”

“Now, wait a minute—”

“Oh, please, doctor, of course it’s a kink.  As kinks go it’s fairly tame, but you’ve never been with a virgin before and you’re _dying_ to know what it’s like.”  Sherlock gave John a look that melted his spine.  “I’m going to make it very good for you, John.  I promise you that.  I may not have much practical knowledge, but my theoretical knowledge is rather comprehensive.”

“Again, a lot of syllables to simply say that you’ve read a lot.”

Sherlock’s smile was decadent.  “Yes.  Now, for a little more information.  Last week I went by your old clinic.  They say hi.”  He twisted round until he was able to pull an envelope from his bedside table drawer.  He handed it to John.  “I’m clean.  It’s all there.”

John opened the envelope and pulled the familiar lab results free, then studied them, his mind still swimming with the after-effects of Sherlock’s amazing precognition skills.  “So it is.”

“I’d like to request that we don’t use condoms.”

“How do you know I’m—?  No, you know what?  I don’t want to know.”

“Fine.  I want to feel you inside me, John.  Please.”

“Holy shit.”

“What?”

“Everyone at my old clinic knows I’m shagging my flatmate.”

“They think we’ve been shagging for a week, John.  At least a week.”

John took stock for a moment, then realized he didn’t give a single fuck who knew what.  He was in love and in lust with Sherlock, and he was going to give the man whatever he wanted.  “So.  Let’s fuck, then.”

Sherlock grinned.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John removed Sherlock’s remaining clothing, kissing every bit of skin he uncovered.  While he was unaccustomed to the sight of chest hair, it wasn’t off-putting, because this was _Sherlock_ , and Sherlock was _his_.  He was made to love this man, in every way loving could be done.  He kissed that chest hair along with the skin that covered his love’s heart.

He continued to kiss and taste as he moved down, and the most significant proof of Sherlock’s masculinity rose to greet him.  He stared at Sherlock’s penis, unafraid, undaunted, and thought, _There you are.  I didn’t know until now how long I’ve been waiting to meet you, to touch you.  Hello._

He gave it a kiss.  It twitched against his lips, and John smiled before he took it into his mouth.

“Oh, Christ, John!” Sherlock shouted from the top of the bed.  John smiled again, and it pulled his mouth tight around Sherlock’s cock.  “Hng,” Sherlock moaned as he slipped his hands into John’s hair.

John pulled off. “Are we okay with this?”

Sherlock let out a deep laugh and said, “I’m good if you are, _mate_.”

“Shut up, love,” John said, then took him into his mouth again.  He was fellating a cock for the first time in his life and he was having fun.  He’d never have expected this of himself, but he needed to stop thinking that.  Sherlock was the great unstoppable force in his life, and he changed everything about John.  And frankly, John couldn’t be more grateful.

“Ohh,” Sherlock moaned.  His hips started twitching up, shoving his cock deeper into John’s mouth.  John understood the instinct all too well; after all, he had the same equipment and he had felt that base urge to just fuck his cock into whatever he could.  If there was a willing mouth, it was a nearly religious experience.  He powered through it, subverting his gag reflex as much as he was able, and tried to swallow around the glans.  Sherlock yelped.  “John, stop!” he cried.  “Oh, god, John!”

John didn’t want to stop.  He and Sherlock’s cock were very, very well acquainted now, and he was having the time of his life (despite the tears in his eyes from the effort he was using to tame his gag reflex).  He swallowed again.

“OH,” Sherlock groaned.  “You want.  Oh, John.  Yes.” Sherlock rocked his hips again, reestablishing his rhythm, and John found it easier, so phenomenally easy, to swallow now.  “Oh.  Oh, John.  God, John.”  Sherlock’s voice was getting rougher and deeper, deep enough to tap a magma chamber in the earth, but even if he’d been perfectly silent John knew the orgasm was coming by the way Sherlock’s cock swelled in his mouth.  Sherlock was about to come down John’s throat, directly down his throat, and John took a breath through his nose, which tightened the passage of his throat, and readied himself.

The rush of it caught him by surprise.  He wasn’t expecting to feel so _powerful_ , fucked in the mouth by Sherlock Holmes, but there was no better word for  it.  He felt like a god, to have reduced Sherlock to this quivering mess.  He slowly, slowly slid back and off Sherlock’s cock, tasting the lingering flavor of his cum and thinking it wasn’t bad at all; maybe a  little stronger and more bitter than a woman’s flavor, but not at all unpleasant. 

While John was evaluating the experience of giving his first blow job, Sherlock was coming back to himself and making an observation.  “John.  You haven’t had an orgasm.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Hmm.  Wonder if you can do something about that.”

“Do you want to fuck me?”

John looked at Sherlock.  He was languourous and debauched, lazy and loose.  John didn’t think the man would enjoy getting prepared, let alone fucked, right now.  “Maybe some other time, love,” he said.

“You.  You called me love.”

“Yeah.  Course I did.  Did you not—do you not like it?”

Sherlock appeared to think it over.  “Well, it’s better than _mate_ or _prat_.  We’re making progress with pet names!”

“You cock.”

“And we’ve regressed.”

“But I like cock.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Yours, anyway.”

“Exactly as it should be.  Full marks.”

John lay back into Sherlock’s decadently comfortable bed.  “Thanks.”

“Now, to keep my word.”  Sherlock turned over and propped himself up on his elbows, hovering close over John.  “I told you I’d make it very good for you, and I will.”

“You don’t owe me—”

“Don’t you dare finish that thought.  I am delighted.  This is my right, my honor, and my privilege now.  Don’t take that away from me or trivialize it by making it a simple _quid pro quo_ transaction.”

“Oh.  Wow.  Sorry.”

Sherlock grinned.  “It’s fine.”  He moved his hand to his mouth and licked his palm and fingers with deliberate, messy intention.  Then he covered John’s cock with his wet hand.

“Fuck,” John cursed before Sherlock covered his mouth as well, with his own mouth.  The hand over John’s cock passed gently over it once, then twice, wet as rain and too light to make him feel anything—but Sherlock was just getting started, of course.  He kissed John as though his lips were his eyes; he was watching  him through the sense of touch, mouth to mouth, and now John’s tongue came into the conversation and licked against Sherlock’s, pressed tighter incrementally at the same rate that Sherlock pressed around John’s cock in his hand.  John stroked with his tongue and Sherlock matched the stroke, tightening on John until he groaned, then maintaining that pressure as the rhythm gained speed.  John was tongue fucking Sherlock’s mouth in time with the way his cock was plunging into Sherlock’s grip, and it was heavenly, it was the music of the spheres, it was just _like_ Sherlock to be unbelievably good at this as well, and unfair, god was it unfair that he could take John apart like this—

John came, his vision blanking and his voice ringing through Sherlock’s bedroom, Sherlock’s mouth against his ear, whispering, “Oh, John, that’s gorgeous, thank you, oh, thank you.”

John started giggling before he’d even completely finished coming.  “You’re welcome, you right menace,” he sighed as he collapsed into the circle of Sherlock’s arms.

“Your right menace,” Sherlock said softly against John’s forehead.

“Mine, yes.”

“And you’re mine now?”

“Always.”

“Right.  Good.”

“So, how long are Greg and Molly watching Rosie?”

“Until the end of our honeymoon period.”

John smiled.  “At least a day, then.”

Sherlock pouted.  “I was rather hoping for at least three.”

“You’ll miss her too much.”

Sherlock’s pout transformed into a smile.  “Yes.”

John put his arms around his love, noting but not distressing himself over the lack of soft curves or breasts.  This was Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock was utterly amazing and completely his.  “I am so sorry it took me so long to get here.”

“Like I said earlier, John, it couldn’t have happened sooner.  This was the right time.”

“I love you,” John whispered.  His muscles were loose and he was so relaxed he could barely keep his eyes open.

“I love you, too.  Now sleep.”

John did.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

By the time Rosie came back to them (just two days later), she was almost confused by the effervescent happiness between her father and her godfather.  She’d known them too long as anxious, rather sad blokes. 

Meanwhile Greg and Molly, themselves rather disgustingly in love with each other, were over the moon for John and Sherlock.  Why wouldn’t they be?  It was Greg’s conversation with John in the pub that set them in motion; he was so sick of watching people who clearly belonged together torture themselves over it, and he recognized in himself all those signs for Molly Hooper.

The next time Sherlock went to see his sister, he brought John and Rosie with him.  The woman who was so observant she could have been an oracle during Greek times, mad and lovely and far too ahead of her time from an evolutionary standpoint, gaped at her little brother as he brought his violin to his neck.  She didn’t say a word, but she didn’t have to; she played a teasing, light, celebratory melody that Sherlock instinctively fell into with her, a conversation between siblings about love and belonging.  After several moments, she turned her body towards John and played for him: a warning. 

 _Do not hurt my brother.  I will find you and destroy you_.

John only lifted his chin at her and let her see his thoughts: _That is my right now, protecting him._

Her answering grin was frightening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Several years later John found himself at a lovely estate, apparently belonging to one of Sherlock’s uncles, during the heat of summer.  They’d decided to take a picnic down by the lake, and Rosie was enjoying the sunset as the fireflies came out and lit her delighted face with an eldritch glow.  Sherlock was sitting beside John and was laughing at her, and covered John’s hand, which was resting on his thigh, with his own.

John thought about that dream he’d had, the one that had revealed that he was in love with Sherlock, and how he was living that dream.  He was relaxed and happy in love.  He had ridden out the storm of coming out to not only his friends and family, but also to the whole world, and he was settled with that.

“She’s going to be alright, Sherlock,” he said softly, pressing his fingers into Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock’s smile faded a little, but he was no less happy.  His eyes shone.  “I know.  She won’t turn out like, like _her_.”

“No.  We won’t let that happen.”

“She’s certainly bright enough.”

“You’re partial.”

“True.”

“We haven’t damaged her,” John said, restating the point from another perspective.

“That wasn’t an option.”  Sherlock kissed John on the cheek.  “I love her.”

John was filled with gratitude for this, the healthy place they both inhabited now.  They had their cases and they had their love, and they had their girl and this lovely, star-bright night.  No monsters inhabited the shadows.  Life was good.

 

*END*


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